The plane touched down in Sacramento on Saturday, half an hour earlier than scheduled, which was a pleasant surprise. Soon after it landed, the plane decided to lose electricity for a few minutes, freaking out a few passengers who all agreed that it was better it happened on the tarmac instead of a mile up in the air. You just can't argue with that logic.
Evy and Ang picked me up from the airport and we set about looking for dinner. Each time one of us mentioned a craving we drove in a new direction looking for food, until we finally settled on Korean food. It's probably because I'm Korean, but there's something nice about coming back "home" and eating Korean food for dinner. I guess it's something of a comfort food for me, whereas it's semi-exotic for other people who didn't grow up eating it every day. We drove out to Korea House in Rancho Cordova and when we sat down the old ahjummah recognized me. She said she hasn't seen me in a while, which put me into a "Korean panic" and I was trying to mind my manners and adopt my Korean persona, which is still about 12-years-old. It was at that age that I realized I was horrible at being a Korean-American, and so I focused on being just an American kid. I like it better when I go into a Korean place and they think I'm Filipino or something. It lets me act like a normal customer without all the confusing Confucian class shit weighing down on me and making be super polite to old people.
After dinner I settled back into my place and found everything in the same spot. Same pile of old laundry stacked up in the corner, a mountain of unwashed dishes in the left kitchen sink, and various unopened envelope strewn about my computer desk. Without missing a beat, I immediately stripped down to my boxers and put a movie on. It was like I never left and the whole trip was just a figment of my imagination. Then again, all things that occurred in the past are in some respect.
I woke up Sunday afternoon to the familiar sound of the Meadowview-bound light rail announcing its arrival to the station behind my house. I lay there for a while contemplating how weird it was to be in a King-sized bed after spending weeks on greyhound seats, train seats, and hostel beds. I really don't need this much space, but sometimes it's nice to sleep sideways on a bed... perhaps that's just me. Sunday was the third day of the Bicycle Film Festival in Fremont Park -- the small park across the street from my house. I sat out on the balcony with a cup of Mexican hot chocolate from the coffee shop next door, found the place where I left off in my book (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance), and read a few chapters while listening to the live performances. Occasionally I'd look up to see a few families picnicking and waiting for the Amgen tour to ride by on P street. When the peloton finally came down the street, I could only make out a stream of shiny helmets zipping through the foliage that blocked my view, but I figured that was enough for this year. In past years I found that taking pictures of the cyclists was a fun challenge since it's difficult to get a perfectly clear shot of them as they zip by and leave the surrounding scenery in an unfocused blur. My DSLR is still broken and my point 'n shoot wouldn't be up to the task.
The rest of the day was spent restocking my fridge, cooking dinner, and watching movies. Every once in a while I'd stop what I was doing and review the photos on my camera. I guess I really did go somewhere, although you'd never guess it if you saw the "lived-in" state of my apartment. I wondered if work would be any different, but I doubted it. Nothing can make the BSA change the way it does business... at least nothing can make it change for the better. I've seen the situation deteriorate slowly over the years as new statutes, acts, or Paytons added to the bureau's list of responsibilities. Even though the place has about as much going for it as the Hornepayne train station, it's a good job filled with quality people. Couldn't ask for a better group of people to play kick the can -- Hornepayne was a desolate train stop in Canada where the only sign of life was was a pair of kids kicking a can back and forth to each other.
The next morning I got into work on time, or rather, relatively on time. Basically, I made it to work at my usual time. See? Nothing changes when you go on vacation, except the paper coffee cup that started leaking two weeks back and is now glued to the tabletop by a ring of mold. The coffee cup and perhaps my cubie's pregnant belly are the only signs of growth in the office. Everything else remained the same, even the progress on my project. It looks like everyone got reassigned for a brief stint on the prop 11 project while I was out. I'm guessing that's why everyone looks exhausted and somewhat bitter that I'm returning now after everything's finished.
I spent the better half of the day recounting my tales to the people who asked, changed my computer password, and read through the 171 emails I received in my absence. I should probably start working soon, but it's hard to get my head wrapped around the topic. Guess I'll do one more lap around the office and then become an obedient worker drone.
'til the next trip,
Andrew Lee
Sacramento, CA
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